Follow the Sage
Weekly Reading Topic for March 14, 2020: Follow the Sage
Well, good morning, love! I just opened a Reading for you, my newsletter subscribers and here’s what I heard in answer to the following:
What do my readers most need to hear this weekend? What is the most important message to send to my beloved readers?
The answer was: “Follow the Sage.”
What follows is your weekly reading, dear one. Stay warm and cozy and listen!
Weekly Reading │ Follow the Sage
Q: What do we need to know about “follow the sage?”
A: Little ones, gather round and tuck in your feet and listen as I tell you a story.
Once upon a time, there was a deep dark forest, and in the center of that deep dark forest there was a valley so steeply walled, and so thickly lined with trees that once inside you would not see the sunlight for days, until you exited the other side.
And a cold stream ran through that valley, and if you stepped into it, the ice would take your toes within a day, long before you saw the warmth of the sun.
This was a dark land, a cold place, the kind of forest where even in the heat of summer you needed a fur on your shoulders and a stick in your hand to feel the trail ahead of you.
And in the time of this tale, it was winter, the coldest time of the year, the time right before the spring starts to steal in on its little green feet, the time that makes every human heart constrict and worry: will warmth ever return?
And in the heart of this deep dark forest there was a small child, lost, shivering in her thin cloak, hiding away from the cold and the wails of the wolves in a fox’s den, eating only the dried leaves and catching snow on her thin, pale fingers for water.
Her parents and all of her relations had died in the winter nights, one by one, having passed through the valley, but then unable to make their way through the forest, caught by the season and their own fear. Her mother was the last to go, just last night, and the only thing she could do for her only living child before she passed was to remove her clothes and push them toward her daughter.
The wind was still howling its great howls over her head, and the small child, only seven, could do nothing but wait, desperately, for some help. Her mother’s heat had long passed from her clothing, and our little love, our little dove, could barely move, hunched with cold and grief.
She couldn’t even cry. Tears turned to icicles on her lashes, pricked her eyes. It was better to just close her eyes and wait, calling in her mind for help, sending her grief and fear and loss and yearning out and up, up, to the treetops, where maybe the wind would take it to some kind person.
But the wind was too loud, and even when it did hear her cries, it was too callous. The wind did not care about our little dove, trapped in the icy snowscape under the thick, black treetops. The wind, darlings, has no mind for human suffering, it has its own tasks to do, and we do not matter one little bit in its world.
So our little love sat, arms locked around her knees, head burrowed beneath their shelter, trying to keep what little warmth her body made alive.
So when the Sage found her, he had quite a time getting her attention.
He tried tapping on her shoulder, but his light touch barely registered under the thick layers of her mother’s clothing.
He moved to her hair, but she assumed that the pressure of his hands was just the wind, playing tricks on her, trying to get her to raise her head and let out the heat.
So he had to go inside the little cave she had made, the little cave of girl warmth she cradled to her belly. He carefully threaded his way through and popped his head in. He was right at the crook of knee and elbow, just underneath, peering around, and when his sight adjusted to her dank, dark headspace, he squeaked.
Our little love jumped, as well she should. It’s not every day that a field mouse speaks to us in a language we can understand. But this one did. The Sage had taken the form of a tiny, helpless animal, the better for her to understand him and listen to what he had to say.
And what did he say, children?
He said “Follow me.”
And somehow, our little love understood his squeaks and whistles. She didn’t move, no, not yet, because how does one move when a mouse squeaks? How does one break ones only warmth, because a tiny mouse says so?
“Where?” she finally breathed. “Follow where?”
“Follow me. I know the way.”
And the sage left. He threaded his way back out into the cold, fluffed up his fur for maximum warmth, and called his family.
And the mice came, swarming, and together they made holes in the snow-packed forest, a trail of footsteps for our little darling to follow. One by one they all jumped to the next spot of fresh snow, denting it in exactly the right shape and with the precise length between footprints.
All our love had to do was rise, and follow the footprints.
And did she? No. She was too scared. If she left her den, she thought, who would believe she had done the right thing? To follow a mouse, a squeaking mouse? She would lose her warmth, and she would lose her last maybe-safe place in the world. The world was big, dark, scary. How could she venture out, motherless, fatherless, lost?
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But our loving sage returned. He came back inside her clothes, less careful this time, and his family ran up her arms and legs and into her hair, and they squeaked and pulled and tugged and to our sweetheart it all sounded like nonsense, nonsense!
“We know where to go, come.”
“We’ve made a path for you!”
“It’s so pretty, your path, come, look!”
“It’s not far. You were almost there!”
And somehow the endless chittering and pattering and clicking of tiny teeth and feet and nails and the sweet swishes of whiskers meant even more to our sweetheart than the words did, which still sounded like nonsense to her.
But eventually, they started removing her clothing, that precious, cold, stiff clothing of her only mother, the only one who had ever cared for her, and as they pulled it off and pushed it back into the den, she cried, angry, but also scared and also, really, resigned.
And our brave girl stood and stepped outside of the den and saw, there in the dim light of high noon, the path. And the mice hurtled themselves before her, jumping in teams of twenty and more from step, to step, refreshing the path right in front of her, thousands of them, leaping in the gloaming snow.
“Follow!” they cried back at her.
“Follow!” they kept crying as they kept jumping, because this time, she was standing, and she could SEE the path, and she could step, or not step, but THEY were heading home to their warm burrows whether she followed or not.
And our sweet lovebird did it. She put her foot in the first step, and it was cold, yes, but it was made for her, she could trust it, and she took the next, and the next, and followed the steps.
And there were so many of them. She walked for a half a day, darlings, half a day and into the night, until she had to rely only on the light of the full moon to find the black steps in the white snow, and that was a clue, wasn’t it, because those steps, made by those mice hours before she arrived, were VISIBLE, she could SEE now, because by following those steps, one by one, right foot by left foot, she had left the deep dark forest, and hadn’t even noticed in her concentration.
And she listened, all the way, for the squeaks and the whoops of the mice, but never heard them again, for they had all gone home by the time she had taken her tenth step, had made such fast progress through the deep dark forest, so they could dive back underground, and sip some warm water from the underground steam stream, and curl up with their winter’s store and nap with each other, back to back, nose to tail, children tucked in under arms and legs.
But our brave little walker walked on alone anyway, each step appearing right where she needed it. And by the time she had walked for twelve hours, and that brilliant moon was lighting her way, she could see the outlines of her own home, the little village on the skirt of the deep dark forest, and she could see the road, beaten into icy slicks by the hooves of the horses, and she ran and slid and fell a few times, but she got up, over and over, until she came to the first home, the home of the baker, and she knocked, and his wife answered, and she fell into their warm, snug room, into their loving arms.
And the bread was fresh and warm, and there was butter, and there was a good soup ladled into a deep bowl, and our little love started to thaw, and as she shivered with relief and warmth, they wrapped her up in their warmest blankets and gave her thick clothes and a place right in front of the hearth to sleep.
And in the dreams she dreamed that long night, and into the next day, and that night, and the next day, and the next night, she heard the wind, and her mother’s sighing love sounds, and the chittering of the Sage as he whispered.
“Follow me.”
So loves, listen to me, and pay close attention. When you feel that all is lost, and you are cold and alone and fear that everything is for nothing, remember, follow the Sage.
He may come in any form, and he may be a She, or a bird, or a cat or a flower petal or a moon or the shiny spoke of a bicycle wheel.
The Sage comes in the form that works for us, at the moment we most need advice, counsel, help, which is at all moments.
And if we only listen, listen, listen to the voices, even when they do not speak a language we recognize as our own language, we will be led to the place we belong.
Sometimes we leave the deep dark forest and get home. Other times we leave and we are led to a new home, or a new place. And sometimes the Sage says “follow me” and we are led on to a brand new experience, a new life, a new place in this world, or the next.
Step by step, the Sage knows where you belong. So have courage, darlings. Have courage. The fear is real, yes, and the winds blow strong and callous. And yet, the Sage is still there, with you, calling you. Follow the Sage. The steps are made just for you.
I am always here to serve in any way I can.
Much Love to You!
Molly
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